Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

I'd like to become a professional writer in the next decade.

7 (29.2%)

Less than videogames.

6 (25%)

I am a professional writer.

3 (12.5%)

More than my health.

2 (8.3%)

I'm not sure.

5 (20.8%)

More than videogames.

0 (0%)

Not at all.

1 (4.2%)

Total Members Voted: 24

Voting closed: April 23, 2012, 11:42:36 pm

[Fishbreath]

Well said.

[Supermikhail]

Well, for all my rational agreement (and for the thin line over which fanfiction becomes "official numnum novel"), why does it feel so derisible? At least for me. And for my sister, say, and some other folks.

Scratch that, I know. For its majority's horrible (self-insert) quality. But if it's good, it must be good, I guess, or we wouldn't have "official numnum novels."

[AlStar]

Since I've given some critiques on some other people's works in the Creative Projects forums, it seems only fair and right that I post some of my stuff to prove that I'm not (totally) talking out of my ass.

This is the first ~900 words of intro to what (for me) is a longer project - currently 7,000 words and going strong! - as most of my stuff is best defined as micro-fiction.

Anyway, hopefully I won't bore you all to tears:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Max stood on the top of a verdant hill, liberally studded with wildflowers and bushes. Looking down the slope, Max could see the lush green grass yellow, then brown with decay by the bottom of the hill. The bottom of the valley was nothing but torn earth, with the jagged sun-bleached hulks of dead trees reaching up from the earth like the hands of a giant skeleton. Most of the bark had been torn from the trees, and deep claw marks ten feet long marked the naked wood. Broken bones lay scattered in throughout the valley; most animal, but at least one toothless human skull glared at Max from where it lay, half buried in the mud.

The villagers from the nearby town – those who remained, at any rate – said that once the entire valley had been teaming with game, as well as being a rich source of nuts, herbs and spices. All that had changed less than a year ago when the beast had arrived and made its home in the system of caves that tunneled below the valley. Within weeks, all the plants had begun to wither and die. Peasants who entered the valley started not to return. Then, just a couple of months ago, villagers started disappearing. Overnight, doors were smashed and homes invaded. The men and children were killed, but the women simply vanished. Most took this as a sign that it was a good time to move on, but a few – mostly the brave, the stubborn and the stupid – remained.

Max wouldn’t have known (or cared) about any of this, except that several nights ago the daughter of a minor lordling had gone missing, a fair maiden whose beauty was talked about throughout the land, and whose father had put up a generous stake of gold for her return. Max had been in the tavern, mug of beer in his hand, listening to a mistral massacre a song on his small harp when the crier had passed by the town, telling the tale of the missing girl and the horrible beast.

Neither the crier nor the villagers had been able to describe the beast – apparently anyone who had seen it died with the knowledge. Judging by the trees, it was large and apparently had a very nasty set of claws.

Max slid his sword out of its sheath, holding it in his right hand – its grip was well-worn leather, but the blade was sharp and straight. He lightly hit the flat of the sword against his chest, and was rewarded with a soft ‘clink’ as the sword bounced off the thousands of close-set rings that made up the protective mail under his leather jacket. With his left hand Max made a motion as if he were holding a ball, perhaps the size of a large grapefruit, his fingers spread and curling inward. He focused his mind just so and suddenly a soft blue glow spread over the grass around him, despite the shining sun overhead. Floating just off his palm, not quite touching his fingers, a small orb of energy hovered, bobbing slightly with the movement of Max’s hand.

Stepping carefully, Max descended down the hill. Immediately on reaching the floor of the valley, Max was hit with a blast of noxious fumes, as if a city’s worth of midden piles, chamber pots and outhouses were located just next to him. The stench was eye-watering, and for a moment Max wavered and nearly decided that maybe the girl and the gold weren’t worth it. Summoning his courage, he put on a stoic face and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, heading to where the locals had said the entrance to the cave system lay.

The ground grew more damp as he approached, mud (or at least, Max valiantly hoped that it was mud) clung to his boots with each step. The horrible miasma that seemed to cling to everything down in the valley managed, somehow, to grow even more noxious. If Max had ever wondered what had killed all the plants in the valley, any doubts had now been eliminated.

The entrance to the cave was just a hole in a particularly sheer part of the hill. It had originally stood perhaps four feet tall, but giant gouge marks had ripped out great swaths of earth, and could now be easily entered by Max without ducking. Max increased his estimate for the size of the beast upwards a few notches, not particularly enjoying the resulting image in his head. The interior of the cave, as seen by the light from the globe in his hand, was dark and looming – black slime or mold had covered every surface. Small (and sometimes large) fragments of the stuff fell from the ceiling to land with a squelching noise that caused Max’s stomach to heave, and he only just barely kept from retching. The fumes here were almost a physical force, seeming to cling to him and burrow under his flesh.

Summoning his courage once again, Max stepped into the opening of the cave and…

“Max! This is the third time I’m calling you, and it’s going to be the last! If you don’t get up now you are going to be late for school, and if that happens, you are in very big trouble!” The voice of his mother boomed up the stairs.

[Girlinhat]

Just a note on "not telling the reader the names yet" it can help if you write in a... somewhat personal way.  That is, write the thoughts of someone observing the situation, even if there's no one observing.  When I did similar, I ended up referring to the old lady as "granny" very often.  "He took a swing but granny managed to dodge."  By the end of it I was capitalizing Granny as that had become the de-facto name.  At least until the name was revealed.  But to do that, and assign an arbitrary title to a character, requires just a bit of "invisible observer" type thinking.  It becomes just a bit more subjective and just a bit less "neutral statement of facts" if that makes sense.

[Girlinhat]

Anyway, hopefully I won't bore you all to tears:

Double-Post!  Anyways, what occurs to me most here is that first, you'll be wearing chainmail over leather, not under.  Then, you're also using the name Max quite frequently when "he" will do, but that's a very minor issue.  I found it to be unnoticeable when I got further in and paid less attention to the words and more attention to the picture.  Which was done rather well.  Some flowery language might be snipped out, like "verdant" may not be instantly understood by everyone, and as they trying to remember what the word means, that's a moment where the picture disappears and the words reappear.

Otherwise very good.  You know what you're doing and you know how to make a first draft.

[Willfor]

Well, for all my rational agreement (and for the thin line over which fanfiction becomes "official numnum novel"), why does it feel so derisible? At least for me. And for my sister, say, and some other folks.

Scratch that, I know. For its majority's horrible (self-insert) quality. But if it's good, it must be good, I guess, or we wouldn't have "official numnum novels."

There are a couple of things that build fanfaction's reputation for being inferior to original fiction. 1) People can unjustly link the fact that an author hasn't created a world of their own to write in with an inability to be properly creative. 2) There is a lot of fanfiction out there, and Sturgeon's Law applies to it. Because there is no barrier to entry except to actually write it, you are able to read anything that anyone was willing to sit down and type out.

Fanfiction is, at the writing level, absolutely no different from any other sort of prose. Of the two sides, the authors who support fanfiction actually recommend writing it to practice your technical skills before you set out to write your own world. The authors who don't support fanfiction are often very concerned with their intellectual properties, and they are worried about getting into a legal battle with an asshole fan who has put out a copyright claim because of their work in the world. There are great points to both sides, actually, but I've always come away from these debates with the distinct impression of "it's perfectly okay to write fanfiction if you're not going to be an asshole about it, and make trouble for the original author."

Probably good life advice in general.

[Fishbreath]

Since I've given some critiques on some other people's works in the Creative Projects forums, it seems only fair and right that I post some of my stuff to prove that I'm not (totally) talking out of my ass.

This is the first ~900 words of intro to what (for me) is a longer project - currently 7,000 words and going strong! - as most of my stuff is best defined as micro-fiction.

Anyway, hopefully I won't bore you all to tears:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Max stood on the top of a verdant hill, liberally studded with wildflowers and bushes. Looking down the slope, Max could see the lush green grass yellow, then brown with decay by the bottom of the hill. The bottom of the valley was nothing but torn earth, with the jagged sun-bleached hulks of dead trees reaching up from the earth like the hands of a giant skeleton. Most of the bark had been torn from the trees, and deep claw marks ten feet long marked the naked wood. Broken bones lay scattered in throughout the valley; most animal, but at least one toothless human skull glared at Max from where it lay, half buried in the mud.

The villagers from the nearby town – those who remained, at any rate – said that once the entire valley had been teaming with game, as well as being a rich source of nuts, herbs and spices. All that had changed less than a year ago when the beast had arrived and made its home in the system of caves that tunneled below the valley. Within weeks, all the plants had begun to wither and die. Peasants who entered the valley started not to return. Then, just a couple of months ago, villagers started disappearing. Overnight, doors were smashed and homes invaded. The men and children were killed, but the women simply vanished. Most took this as a sign that it was a good time to move on, but a few – mostly the brave, the stubborn and the stupid – remained.

Max wouldn’t have known (or cared) about any of this, except that several nights ago the daughter of a minor lordling had gone missing, a fair maiden whose beauty was talked about throughout the land, and whose father had put up a generous stake of gold for her return. Max had been in the tavern, mug of beer in his hand, listening to a mistral massacre a song on his small harp when the crier had passed by the town, telling the tale of the missing girl and the horrible beast.

Neither the crier nor the villagers had been able to describe the beast – apparently anyone who had seen it died with the knowledge. Judging by the trees, it was large and apparently had a very nasty set of claws.

Max slid his sword out of its sheath, holding it in his right hand – its grip was well-worn leather, but the blade was sharp and straight. He lightly hit the flat of the sword against his chest, and was rewarded with a soft ‘clink’ as the sword bounced off the thousands of close-set rings that made up the protective mail under his leather jacket. With his left hand Max made a motion as if he were holding a ball, perhaps the size of a large grapefruit, his fingers spread and curling inward. He focused his mind just so and suddenly a soft blue glow spread over the grass around him, despite the shining sun overhead. Floating just off his palm, not quite touching his fingers, a small orb of energy hovered, bobbing slightly with the movement of Max’s hand.

Stepping carefully, Max descended down the hill. Immediately on reaching the floor of the valley, Max was hit with a blast of noxious fumes, as if a city’s worth of midden piles, chamber pots and outhouses were located just next to him. The stench was eye-watering, and for a moment Max wavered and nearly decided that maybe the girl and the gold weren’t worth it. Summoning his courage, he put on a stoic face and focused on putting one foot in front of the other, heading to where the locals had said the entrance to the cave system lay.

The ground grew more damp as he approached, mud (or at least, Max valiantly hoped that it was mud) clung to his boots with each step. The horrible miasma that seemed to cling to everything down in the valley managed, somehow, to grow even more noxious. If Max had ever wondered what had killed all the plants in the valley, any doubts had now been eliminated.

The entrance to the cave was just a hole in a particularly sheer part of the hill. It had originally stood perhaps four feet tall, but giant gouge marks had ripped out great swaths of earth, and could now be easily entered by Max without ducking. Max increased his estimate for the size of the beast upwards a few notches, not particularly enjoying the resulting image in his head. The interior of the cave, as seen by the light from the globe in his hand, was dark and looming – black slime or mold had covered every surface. Small (and sometimes large) fragments of the stuff fell from the ceiling to land with a squelching noise that caused Max’s stomach to heave, and he only just barely kept from retching. The fumes here were almost a physical force, seeming to cling to him and burrow under his flesh.

Summoning his courage once again, Max stepped into the opening of the cave and…

“Max! This is the third time I’m calling you, and it’s going to be the last! If you don’t get up now you are going to be late for school, and if that happens, you are in very big trouble!” The voice of his mother boomed up the stairs.

'It was all just a dream' is done a lot, but this is a competent execution of the idea. Quibbles from the first half:

'deep claw marks ten feet long marked' - as a matter of personal taste, I try to avoid repeating descriptive words in quick succession.

'the entire valley had been teaming with game' - teeming. Alternate, snarkier comment: but then the valley was ejected from the match, leaving game to play a man down.

There were some other things I thought, like 'a minor lordling' being redundant, but I'm willing to let those slide if you claim that it's an artifact of it being a kid's dream.

[Fishbreath]

2) There is a lot of fanfiction out there, and Sturgeon's Law applies to it. Because there is no barrier to entry except to actually write it, you are able to read anything that anyone was willing to sit down and type out.

I'm not sure which side you're taking on that debate, or indeed if you're taking one at all, but I suppose I'm going to make an orthogonal point anyway: there isn't much a barrier of entry to original fiction either, and Sturgeon's Law applies to it just the same (c.f. me). I'd suggest that fanfiction's reputation isn't bad because it's mostly crap, but because it's mostly crap and most fandoms have a large, pre-existing audience, who may not be great writers or critics, but who can identify crap when it's placed next to the original, presumably-not-crap* series.

* By the standards of the fandom, anyway; 'crap' is a subjective point in all but the most obvious cases.

[shadenight123]

sometimes for example, fanfictions are done because something in the original plot was distasteful, to speak of an example easy to grasp: maybe the male protagonist chose a love interest some part of the audience wasn't fine with. (like the naruto + *insert Girl name here*) or because something was so blatantly obvious that the protagonist was made Stupidier to not notice it. *like half the spies in animes, who you can point your finger at them in a split second and say "IT'S HIM/HER!".
Usually fanfiction should be about adding original stuff to something, but it can also be written as a way to "personally" (personal likings) alter the plot in a way the writer deems better. Since obviously no one was born a writer, and there are various degrees of writing style, prose and even translation problems (usually writing in english, when you are not english by yourself can be troublesome), the quality varies. Sometime there is no *momentum* the author wants a determined pairing to start working, for example, and writes three lines to explain how it happened. "Naruto sees Hinata walking down the street, realizing how he loves her instead of that stupid Sakura, he runs over to her and confesses his feelings" then he proceeds on writing what he/she deems interesting for her. "The two cuddle next to a fire in the midst of a forest. A slight noise is heard in the background, a bear cub pokes his way through "Kawaii" exclaims Hinata" and things like that. Sometime, fanfiction arise as challenges: "I challenge fanfic writers to write about Warhammer 40k mixed with...jellyfishes!" other time it's for the lemons.

That's what I caught wind off looking around the fanfiction.net site. There are some wonderfully written crossovers or fanfic, and then there are some written badly, but still, it's nice to read them all and see how some people think the same things you do, and wrote them down, albeit badly, and your next thought is:"if they can write this like this. Why can't I try and write it...better?" 

[AlStar]

Anyways, what occurs to me most here is that first, you'll be wearing chainmail over leather, not under.

How dare you question me!

... Anyway, in my mind it's basically a leather coat over the chain, which would be over a cotten garment. I suppose you're probably right that it would go chain -> leather -> undershirt. I had the 'trenchcoated hero' thing going through my head when I wrote that.

Some flowery language might be snipped out, like "verdant" may not be instantly understood by everyone, and as they trying to remember what the word means, that's a moment where the picture disappears and the words reappear.

Curse you vocabulary! Yeah, I'll need to look to that - I've been told I do similar when I talk to people.

'deep claw marks ten feet long marked' - as a matter of personal taste, I try to avoid repeating descriptive words in quick succession.

Whoops, yeah, that second one should be 'scarred'.

'the entire valley had been teaming with game' - teeming.

*cough* I totally noticed that before, and was testing the lot of you. You passed. Good work!

There were some other things I thought, like 'a minor lordling' being redundant, but I'm willing to let those slide if you claim that it's an artifact of it being a kid's dream.

I'd imagine that, even between lordlings, there would be some that are more major or minor than others, but yeah, I could probably snip the 'minor' bit.

'It was all just a dream' is done a lot, but this is a competent execution of the idea.

Actually, getting into that idea is what forms the basis of the story, but unless I post more of it (which I can, if anyone's interested) it seemed like a good place to end that bit.

Thanks for the comments all!

[Supermikhail]

Regarding genres that some groups (sometimes majority) don't esteem highly, and going back to last page's request to critique a DF-based story, I wonder if common points could be found to explain the negative (or apathetic) reactions.

I think it's clearly visible when the writer is basing his narrative structure on DF's schemes. Well, first, there are names in the hastily-made-up DF style (or taken from DF languages). Then, there's extensive descriptiveness and a lot of exposition. Maybe third is the lack of a good and clear conflict.

I wonder if I'm talking out of my ass. It seems like those are traits of just bad writing. But then they would also characterize an average DF in-game story.

[AlStar]

Hi. I'm nearly brand new to the forums and I think I already screwed something up. I posted a DF inspired story to the Community Games & Stories section and after reading a bunch of the other posts in that sub-forum I now realize it probably should have gone in this thread (or hereabouts). You can find the story here, and if someone could let me know what I ought to do with it - or if you want to comment on the story itself - I'd appreciate it.

(note: I realize that you're taking your names directly from your game.) While I know, logically, that names really shouldn't make a difference, and that you could as easily come up with a name by slamming your head into the keyboard for all that it should matter... with all that said, the names just don't sound good.

"Gembishzasit," "the Chartreuse Kingdom," to a lesser extent, "the Tired Jungle." They just don't flow with the narritive well. I was originally going to complain about the character names too, but on a second look, I think they actually work ok - they sound fantasy/foreign without becoming gibberish.

I think that your conversation in the Jungle doesn't flow terribly well, partially due to the way that it's worded, and partially because it's sort of silly and inconsistant. They'll be killed if they go back home? That seems unreasonable, but (as we all know) Dwarven justice is anything but just... But then one of the guards turns back anyway. If Streti thought so poorly of going on, why wouldn't she join the guard? And how would they get back home anyway? They don't have any supplies! One of the mules runs off and they're nearly eating their own boots.


My other problem concerns the line "From inside the walls, a dwarf’s voice called out, “The North Gate, run for the North Gate!”" and the juxtaposition with the prospective shift at the end. Either the defenders know that the caravan is out there, and they should be worried about them burning to death, or they don't, and they shouldn't be calling out to them.

I mean, unless Olin is a real heartless bastard who happened to be sleeping while the rest of the fortress defended the walls (which, as we know, can and will happen) he should know that those aren't fried goblins.


Overall, I felt like too much time was taken up by the bickering in the Jungle and not enough by the epic melee at the end.

[Bilgewater]

(note: I realize that you're taking your names directly from your game.)...
Overall, I felt like too much time was taken up by the bickering in the Jungle and not enough by the epic melee at the end.

Thanks for your comments Alstar.

I think names absolutely make a difference, and I agree that the ones I used were not great. I had a little trouble deciding which names I should use and yes, I definitely was using names from my dungeon. Now that I look back, I think I probably should have called Gembishsazit by its translation, Sealknife, which implies an inherent violence and sounds like actual words. I really liked "The Chartreuse Kingdom," if only as a slightly comedic title, but I can see how it would be jarring.

Ah, dialogue. I haven't written much in a while and it was never really my strong point. I'll re-work it. Also, I guess this point didn't really come across (namely because I never explicitly said it) but the caravan is human, not dwarven. I do imply that they're not dwarves, but I guess I ought to include some other clues.

As for the guard who turns back, I was trying to come up with a Bram Stoker-like sense of foreboding. I would explain his behavior as being afraid of a fate worse than death. I mean, personally I'd rather have my head chopped off than get run down in a field by a squad of goblins or burned alive by a dragon, but I get your point.

I'd justify Olin's behavior by saying that he was simply somewhere else when the first dwarf called out to the caravan. That seems perfectly reasonable to me. I don't think dwarves have a psychic link to say "there are humans outside."

Lastly, I think battle scenes become boring very quick. Even exceptionally well written scenes eventually become tired and bogged down in their own bloodshed. Knowing this, I tried to keep it as brusque as possible. Did you think it was anti-climactic or just too short?

Thanks again for your response.

[kaijyuu]

Just a note on "not telling the reader the names yet" it can help if you write in a... somewhat personal way.  That is, write the thoughts of someone observing the situation, even if there's no one observing.  When I did similar, I ended up referring to the old lady as "granny" very often.  "He took a swing but granny managed to dodge."  By the end of it I was capitalizing Granny as that had become the de-facto name.  At least until the name was revealed.  But to do that, and assign an arbitrary title to a character, requires just a bit of "invisible observer" type thinking.  It becomes just a bit more subjective and just a bit less "neutral statement of facts" if that makes sense.

Hrm, makes sense I suppose.

When I see someone I don't know in a crowd or whatever, I tend to identify them visually. By their face, hair style, clothing, etc. That doesn't really translate to a title in my mind, since the identification is entirely non-verbal. If I had to point them out, I'd call them Red Shirt Guy or something.

Fortunately the character I'm writing in the perspective of would be the type of person to assign silly titles and names like that, so it should work!

[kaijyuu]

Question for the more serious writers:



For stuff that's just... eh, should I try and revise it until it's decent, or toss it in a bin and work on something else? From a pure learning/practice perspective. Not like I'm writing anything to be published.


On one hand I feel like revising so that people I give it to for feedback won't point out things I already know, but on the other hand some parts just feel fundamentally unsalvageable and I'm worried I'm wasting my time.



(this is fun though. Next time I sign up for college classes, gonna try for a creative writing class)